The Coal Black Asphalt Tomb: A Berger and Mitry Mystery (Berger and Mitry Mysteries) (12 page)

It was a few minutes after two o’clock when Mitch strolled in with Bitsy, as her guest. The dining room was done serving lunch. A half-dozen dignified retirees were digesting their meal in the reading room with their eyes closed and their mouths open. There was no bar. Instead, the club had a storage cupboard with lockers where members could keep their private stock under lock and key. The club’s thriftier members were notorious for buying bottom-shelf A&P store-brand Scotch and transferring the contents to the bottle from a high-end single-malt.

They found Beryl Fairchild and Delia Paffin alone in the sunny card room, talking quietly over a hand of gin rummy. The two ladies acted startled when Mitch and Bitsy walked in, as if they’d just been caught doing something naughty.

Beryl mustered a welcoming smile. “Why, Bitsy, how nice to see you. You’re looking well, dear.”

“As are you,” Bitsy said brightly. “But you
always
do. Some day you’ll have to tell me your secret.”

Beryl Fairchild was a slender, silver-haired swan of a lady who exuded poise and elegance. Her posture was perfect. Her complexion was smooth. Her features were finely sculpted. She had good, high cheekbones and a wide mouth with a fetching Tierney-esque overbite, as in the actress Gene, not the actor Lawrence. Her eyes were a lovely shade of blue. But they were not the gleaming eyes of a woman who was happily engaged in life’s joyous pursuits. They were the eyes of a full-time practicing widow who had seen life and love leave her behind. Beryl was wearing a pale yellow cashmere sweater and tailored gray slacks. A raspberry-colored silk scarf was knotted artfully around her throat to hide whatever age lines were there.

Delia Paffin, aka Easy Deezy, was a hefty, rosy-cheeked woman who, for reasons known only to her, chose to dye her hair the color of Tang. Mitch had encountered the former first selectman’s wife several times at cocktail parties and gallery openings. He’d found her to be beady eyed, calculating and nasty. Otherwise he liked her a lot.

“Do you know Mitch Berger?” Bitsy asked Beryl.

“I know
of
you, of course,” Beryl said, extending her slim hand to him.

He gave it a gentle squeeze. “Likewise, Mrs. Fairchild.”

“Please, make it Beryl.”

Delia did not offer him her own boiled ham of a hand. Merely glared at him as if he’d just tracked something nasty onto her pristine white living room carpet.

“I’m giving Mitch our grand tour,” Bitsy informed them. “He’s thinking about joining.”

“There’s a considerable waiting list,” Delia cautioned him, her voice distinctly chilly.

“Not a problem,” he assured her. “I’m a patient man.”

“Won’t you two sit with us for minute?” Beryl asked.

“Why, thanks, that would be lovely,” Bitsy burbled as they sat down at the card table with them. “You know, I’ve always liked this room the best. It’s newer than the rest of the club, Mitch.”

“Was it added on?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Beryl said. “The original card room burned to the ground back in ’92. It was a smaller room and didn’t have nearly as many windows looking out at Old Henry’s garden. Old Henry was our head groundskeeper here for nearly fifty years. His garden has always been our pride and joy. His boy, Young Henry, still does a wonderful job with it. Not that there’s much to see right now.”

Mostly what Mitch saw were the thorny stubs of many, many rose bushes set in tidy rows.

“You must come back and see it when it’s in full bloom, Mitch,” she added. “It’s really quite remarkable.”

“Did it have to be replanted after the fire?”

“It did indeed.” Beryl gazed out at it. “Between the firemen and the workmen it got thoroughly trampled. It’s an entirely different garden now.”

“How so?”

“Why do you wish to know?” Delia demanded, her jaw clenching.

“I’m interested in gardens.” Mitch noticed two gently aged wooden benches artfully positioned amidst the rose bushes. “Those are great benches. Are they teak? I was thinking about buying one. Do they last a long time?”

“
Yes
, they’re teak.” Now Delia was outright bristling. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

“I’m afraid so. That’s how I learn things.”

“They last for generations if you take good care of them,” Beryl responded politely. “Which Young Henry does. He tucks them away every winter, gives them a good scrub. And in answer to your other question, the garden was enlarged after the fire so as to accommodate more beds. Young Henry is also a good deal less formal than his father was.”

“The old garden was much more traditional,” Delia allowed. “And properly enclosed, unlike now.”

“I see,” Mitch said, even though he didn’t. Young Henry’s garden not only looked plenty formal but was fully enclosed by a neatly manicured waist-high boxwood hedge.

“He’s very clever when it comes to making sure something’s in bloom all season long,” Beryl went on. “Peonies, foxgloves, hollyhocks, what have you. That way there’s always sure to be a lovely backdrop for wedding photos. Many, many weddings have taken place in Old Henry’s garden over the years. Delia and Bob were married out there.”

“By Reverend Marsh,” Delia recalled with a nod of her orange head. “On a sunny day in June of 1969. The 14th, thanks to your dear father-in-law.”

“Chase’s father was club president back in those days,” Beryl explained. “When Delia and Bob decided on a date it turned out that another couple had already reserved the garden for their own wedding. Mr. Fairchild persuaded them to choose a different date so as to accommodate Delia and Bob. Chase was Bob’s best man, and I was Delia’s maid of honor.” A wistful smile crossed her lips. “We were married here ourselves a few months later.”

Delia’s beady eyes narrowed at him. “Bob and I had a visit from your ‘friend’ this morning. I don’t suppose you know anything about that.”

“I know everything about it. So does Bitsy.” On Delia’s look of dismay Mitch added, “But not because of anything the resident trooper told us.”

Bitsy nodded. “It’s true. We got dragged in all on our own.”

Delia let out a sigh. “It’s been such a shock. Imagine, Lance
underneath
Dorset Street this whole time.”

“How did Bob take the news?” Bitsy asked her.

“Not well. He fainted. Bob’s never had a strong constitution, you know. And then he got extremely agitated when an unappetizing young fellow from the medical examiner’s office showed up to take … what did he call it? A cheek swab? Bob got so upset that I gave him a mild tranquilizer and put him to bed. He’s napping now. Or he should be.” She glanced at her watch. “I ought to get home to him. I just
had
to get out of the house for a few minutes.”

“Of course you did,” Beryl said soothingly.

“Bob
idolized
Lance, you see. Lance was his hero. And he died so young that he never had a chance to disillusion Bob.”

“Why would he disillusion him?” Mitch asked.

“Because the Lances Paffins of the world always do. Bob only knew him as his vibrant and charismatic big brother. He never had to watch Lance become just another balding, middle-aged fellow with a beer gut who complains day and night about his enlarged prostate. Lance never … he never committed the cardinal sin of becoming ordinary,” Delia explained, choosing her words carefully.

Mitch wondered if she’d been that careful when she used to shuck her panties in the back seat of Lance’s Mustang GT. A giggly pushover, Sheila had called her.

“It occurs to me that I’m being a terrible hostess,” Beryl interjected. “May I offer either of you coffee?”

“I’d love a cup,” Bitsy said.

“Me, too. But you’d better make mine decaf, please.”

“I really should get home to Bob,” Delia said.

Beryl said, “Do give him my best. And call me if you need anything.”

The two of them exchanged air kisses before Delia left. Beryl went into the small kitchen that adjoined the card room. She returned a moment later with two cups and sat back down, calm and composed. Mitch couldn’t imagine her as anything but calm and composed.

He took a sip of his decaf and discovered that it didn’t taste even remotely like coffee. He took another sip, frowning suspiciously. “Am I losing my mind or is this
Postum
?”

“Why no,” Beryl responded hurriedly. “No, it’s not.”

He grinned at her. “Yes, it is. And you’re a terrible liar. I haven’t had a cup of this since my grandmother died. She used to love it.” Postum was an instant coffee substitute made from roasted grain. Easier on the stomach supposedly. “But I thought Kraft Foods stopped making it.”

“Back in 2008,” Beryl confirmed. “Our club manager in those days believed in bulk purchasing. He was very clever that way. Since quite a few of us happened to enjoy it he purchased numerous cartons of it. We still have several tucked safely away. We have to keep them under lock and key or someone will steal them. Unopened jars of Postum fetch quite a sum on eBay, I’m told. Apparently, the Seventh-day Adventists pay top dollar for them. Was your grandmother a Seventh-day Adventist?”

“Sadie Mandelbaum? No, not exactly.”

Beryl squinted at him ever so slightly before she turned to Bitsy and said, “Have you lost weight? You’re looking thin.”

Bitsy let out a laugh. “I’m looking
fat
. Just like my mom.”

“Don’t speak ill of your mom,” Beryl chided her. “She was one of my favorite people.”

“I take it you two have known each other a long time,” Mitch said.

“Only fifty years or so,” Bitsy answered. “Beryl used to babysit me when we both lived on Turkey Neck Road.”

Beryl smiled at her. “And you were so naughty. Always testing me. Tell me, how is Redfield doing?”

Bitsy’s face fell. “The same.”

“Do you have any idea when he’ll be released from prison?”

“He will never be released from prison,” she stated flatly.

The reason being that Bitsy’s husband, Redfield, had kind of conspired to kind of kill someone. His crime, and the ensuing cover-up, had served as Mitch’s introduction to life in bucolic Dorset. It was how he and Des met.

Beryl studied Bitsy, tilting her head slightly. “Still, you’re doing well.”

“Am not. I’m just good at keeping up appearances. I went to the same finishing schools you did, don’t forget. And you? How are you and Buzzy doing?”

Beryl let out a gentle laugh. “Do the village hens think we’re a hot item? Allow me to assure you that we’ve never so much as held hands. We’re just old friends who happen to get lonesome. And I own a DVD player and Buzzy doesn’t. So I fix us dinner and we watch movies from Netflix. He likes old-fashioned British comedies, the broader the better, such as—”

“Wait, wait, don’t tell me.…” Mitch’s wheels began spinning, spinning. “He’s a huge fan of the
Carry On
movies, am I right?”

“Why, yes. We watched
Carry on Nurse
just the other night. Buzzy laughed so hard the tears were streaming down his face. That was quite some guess, Mitch.”

“I never guess.”

“Myself, I prefer something with a bit of romance in it such as—”

“The films of Douglas Sirk?”

Beryl blinked at him in astonishment. “You amaze me.”

“And you amaze me.”

“Do I? Why is that?”

“Doesn’t it bother you that Mr. Shaver hates your daughter?”

“He doesn’t ‘hate’ Glynis.”

“He’s practically called her a terrorist in
The Gazette
. In fact, I think he
has
called her a terrorist.”

“That’s just politics, Mitch. It’s not personal. Buzzy is a kind, gentle soul. And he gets terribly low now that his mother is gone. He devoted his life to Gladys. He never had a steady girl. Hardly dated at all, in fact. I don’t wish to sound cruel but he was never the most attractive thing around. And now he has such appalling teeth.”

“He should have taken better care of his gums. Stim-U-Dents, I understand, can be very helpful.”

Both ladies were staring at him.

“Sorry, you were saying…”

“For all I know he’s still a virgin,” Beryl confided. “Unless he associated with call girls. Or, you know, went the other way.”

Mitch frowned at her. “You think he’s gay?”

“If he is, he’s never revealed it to a living soul. But, honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit.”

Mitch took another sip of his Postum. “You were one of the last people to see Lance Paffin alive, weren’t you?”

Beryl arched an eyebrow at him. “Why, yes. A group of us were here for the spring dance. They did it up formal in those days. It was always a special night.” She hesitated, glancing out the window at Old Henry’s garden. “This place has changed very little over the years. And yet it all seems so different.”

“Different how?”

“I suppose…” She gazed looked down at her long, slim hands. “What I mean is that back then our world seemed so perfect. But there is no such thing as a perfect world, is there? We were merely insulated from life’s harsher realities. So young. So privileged. So clueless. We girls were the last of the breed.”

“Which breed is that?”

“The ones who were taught to be seen but not heard. We were expected to be decorative, have our babies and keep our opinions to ourselves. We weren’t expected to
do
anything. We were the last ones. In fact, it was already changing while I was Wellesley. Several of my classmates were girls of no particular background at all. Sweaty, pimply girls from places like Camden, New Jersey, who studied like crazy and had every intention of attending law school. I was brought up to marry a lawyer, not become one. That’s why I’m so proud of Glynis. She’s used her mind. And spoken up. All I’ve ever done is keep quiet. I’m very, very good at keeping quiet.” Beryl’s blue eyes shimmered at them. “Lance Paffin saw right through me from the moment we met. Somehow, he knew how frustrated and unfulfilled I was. He knew the
real
me better than Chase ever did. Lance was a deeply flawed person. He had this overpowering need to go after other men’s women. He was always looking for someone, or something, that he couldn’t find. I sometimes wondered if deep down inside…” She colored slightly. “If he didn’t really care for women at all.”